


Destination: Anywhere

by deansnuggles



Category: Fringe
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e22 Over There Part 1, Episode: s02e23 Over There Part 2, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansnuggles/pseuds/deansnuggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's POV during the events of Over There - why he left, and how he felt about that major decision once there was no going back (that he knew of). And, of course, why he did come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destination: Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> This is Peter's POV during the events of Over There. It's not a scene-by-scene breakdown like I did with my last fic, mostly because I don't really care to break down Peter's scenes with his parents (what can I say, I'm an unapologetic shipper and that's pretty much my only reason for writing) and he only has 3 scenes with an Olivia. So it's mostly him talking to himself, lol. I really wanted to explore his thought process - why he left, and how he felt about that major decision once there was no going back (that he knew of). And, of course, why he did come back.

I don't know who I am any more.

Peter Bishop: High school drop-out; Genius; Conman; FBI Consultant; From an alternate universe.

Not exactly what I thought I'd be putting on my resume.

Looking back, I've never really known who I was. Where I belong. I guess that kind of makes sense now. I was living a life that wasn't mine, in a world I didn't belong in. But at least I know what it is that I do best: run.

So I ran.

I am such a fool. Thinking I could settle down, make a home. There's no home for me there. There's nothing for me there. I don't know why I stayed as long as I did.

Who am I kidding, I know exactly why I stayed. For her. For two years, I stayed for her. It started as curiosity - she was intriguing, this little blond FBI agent with a chip on her shoulder and something to prove, who managed not only to blackmail me into coming back to Boston, but blackmail me with a bluff. I can count on one hand the number of people who've bluffed me successfully. That's what I get for underestimating her.

Curiosity turned to concern when it became clear that she never thought about her own well-being, her own safety. She'd throw herself into the lion's den without a second thought if there was someone in there who needed rescuing (and did so frequently). She could certainly take care of herself, but more and more I found myself wanting - needing - to be the one to watch her back, just in case. This protectiveness turned to attraction, to caring, which in turn grew into love.

I'm not exactly sure when or how that happened, but it did. Sometimes I felt like I was the only person in the world who could coax a smile out of her. It was a good feeling. No, it was an amazing feeling. Every smile was like a drug, and I was an addict. I lived for those moments; though sometimes they were few and far between, that only made them more special.

And I fooled myself into believing she could feel the same. That I could break past those barriers she'd so carefully built, that I was the one who could bring her a little happiness. That she was the one who could bring me what I'd never had - stability. An anchor. I just needed to give her time, to get past the John thing, and then the Jones thing, the coma and the death of Charlie, and then the Cortexiphan thing... who was I kidding? In two years she never gave me any sign she was interested. We were colleagues, then friends, then close friends ... but after two years of spending almost every waking moment together, one almost-kiss was enough to close her off again. I gave her an out - the good old "don't want to mess with a good thing" excuse - and she jumped on it. And even then, I convinced myself that I still had a shot. I mean, it's not like I had any competition, right? All it needed was time.

I was an idiot. And now I find out that she was keeping Walter's dirty little secret from me too. Who knows how long she knew, but I'm sure that she did. Actually, some of the avoidance and awkwardness she'd shown over the last several weeks could have been the result of that knowledge. No matter, it doesn't change anything. There's nothing for me back there any more.

So when I was given the chance to start over, to leave that fucked up world that has given me nothing but pain and grief, to reclaim a life I'd never known I'd lost, I took it. I threw myself down the rabbit hole, never looking back.

Well.

That was the plan.

Now that I'm here, it's not that simple. I guess the grass isn't always greener, after all.

Breakfast with my mother is ... strange. Wonderful, but so strange. I can't quite process it all yet. How to relate to this woman who is so like my mother, who is my mother, but is not the woman I remember.

Seeing Walternate - my father - the Secretary - I'm still not sure how to refer to him - is indescribable. With Elizabeth, I have to remind myself that she's not the same woman, that we don't share the same memories. With Walter, he is so completely different from the man I know now. He's more like the man I remember from my childhood, driven and determined and intelligent. But instead of stealing a son, he lost one. It remains to be seen how much that experience changed him. It's going to take some getting used to, having a father that never abandoned me, lied to me, used me and experimented on me. It'll take a while for me to trust him, to not look at him and think of Walter.

As I said to him when I first arrived at his office: I've seen strange. This ... this is something else.

He blames Walter for all the damage this world has suffered. He's right, I suppose, but I still find myself slightly defensive. I guess he has just as much right to despise Walter as I do, but the man did raise me. Sort of. And as with any family dispute, just because you have a falling out with a family member doesn't mean you won't defend them against an outsider. Of course, this isn't really an outsider, is it? It's all too much to sort through right now, so I file it away for later.

While we're talking in his office, his assistant interrupts us to say that Agent Dunham is outside. My heart skips a beat, and I blurt out "Olivia's here?" before logic kicks in. Of course she's not here. Don't be ridiculous. The Secretary gives me a long look before telling his assistant to send her in.

It's not her, of course. But it is her. The her from over here. The what-if, might-have-been Olivia Dunham. I'm caught completely off-guard - I wasn't expecting this. I should have, I guess, but it never occurred to me that she would have a double over here. That there would be an Olivia Dunham from my world.

She walks in with a cocky swagger, not Olivia's no-nonsense gait. She's dyed her hair red, and has bangs - it looks good on her. Hell, anything would look good on her. She's standing in a very non-Olivia posture - hands clasped behind her back military-style, but still managing to look carefree. I must be staring, because she cocks an eyebrow at me, "Do I have something in my teeth?"

I try to smile at her, but I'm still a little shell shocked. "No, you remind me of somebody I know. But your hair is different." Good job Bishop, way to creep her out. "Think I like yours better."  _Ouch._  Part of me cringes at the comparison.  _She can't hear you, Peter._  I guess I'm still a little bitter. Thankfully, the Secretary asks me to give them a few minutes. She's looking at me like I'm crazy, and I have so many conflicting emotions running through me, I really need some air.

I find a bench and sit, head in my hands. I feel like I need a break from all this, all the changes, differences, weirdnesses. It's too much to take in all at once. But there's no where to go. This is reality now, and I have to accept that. This was my choice. I guess I'll get used to it all, that someday it will be normal for me. I wonder when I'll stop missing home. This is home, it always has been. I just need to give it time.

The Secretary has their Olivia drive me to the apartment he's arranged for me to stay in. Thankfully the ride is short, because "awkward" doesn't begin to describe it. She keeps glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, while I try not to make eye contact. This is just a bit much to take in right now. My mother still being alive, a father who isn't mentally unstable, I was dealing with. Being presented with the double of the woman I loved - love - I don't know what to do with this information. Does she have a boyfriend? Is it wrong of me to be wondering that? Half of me argues: I'm stuck here, right? Might as well make the best of it; while the other half recoils at the idea. However similar she might be, it won't be the same. However much she disappointed me, Olivia was my best friend for two years. I won't disrespect that memory. Best to just move on.

When we reach the apartment, it's been pre-furnished for me. There are comic book posters on the wall, but they're all wrong. Red Lantern, Red Arrow instead of Green, and so forth. But deep down, there's a ghost of a memory that recognizes them. Every faulty memory over the years, pushed aside because it didn't fit, actually had a basis in reality. Just not that reality. It's enough to make my head spin.

When I mention feeling like the Lindbergh Baby, she gives me a blank look. I guess that never happened here. Great. Just great. I hadn't considered that I'd have to learn an entirely different set of historical and pop culture references. I hadn't considered much of anything, apparently.

"What's she like?"

She snaps me out of my train of thought. "Who?"

She shrugs, with a hint of embarrassment. "Me."

I guess it was inevitable that she would want to know about her other life. Unfortunately that means I have to dredge up some memories I'd rather keep buried at the moment.

"She's a lot like you." But not, really. "Darker in the eyes, maybe." I think about it for a moment. What it is that makes Olivia,  _Olivia_.

"She's always trying to make up for something. Right some imaginary wrong. Haunted, I guess."

I look at her, really look at her, into her eyes for the first time, and there's nothing there. Not that she's shallow - she's genetically identical, after all. But I see no self-doubt, no ghosts. I'm sure she has her own set of demons - who doesn't - but she has dealt with them differently. With a self-assured facade, with a cocky smile and a sharp tongue. Not steely determination and a bottle of whiskey. She has two poses: military straight, or self-confident slouch. It's like looking into a funhouse mirror. So similar and yet so completely different.

"Maybe she's nothing like you at all, huh."

I hear my voice break at the end. Fuck I miss her. The white-hot anger I'd felt, that had lead me to run across a country and across a universe, is burning itself out. All that's left behind is disappointment and doubt. And now, faced with her double who is everything she is not, I miss her more than I could have imagined.

I thought I could leave it all behind me, leave her behind, but I proved myself the fool yet again. Now that I'm stuck here, I'm left wondering what would have happened if I'd given her a chance to explain herself, heard her side. If maybe she had loved me. If maybe she was afraid of losing me. Now I'll never know.

After the Not-Olivia leaves, I explore my new accommodations. Clothing in the closets. Food in the fridge. Liquor in the cabinet. I stop my search there, grabbing a bottle of wine - I believe tonight calls for a lot of wine. I decide to work on the machine part that the Secretary gave me. Having a project always focuses me and will help keep my mind off unwanted thoughts.

Of course, things just get stranger as I work on the machine. After a few hours, I realize that it seems to be symbiotic in nature, and it responds to me - and from what I can tell, only me. What the hell...

I'm interrupted by a knock at the door. I open it to find their Olivia, along with a face I've not seen in almost a year - Charlie Francis. Now this is a pleasant surprise. I actually smile for the first time since breakfast - he's different, of course, with a shaved head and a scar down his face, but after the day I've had it's just so nice to see a familiar face that doesn't carry with it hurtful memories. Charlie's alive here. That's good news.

I invite them in, "What can I do for you guys?"

Their Olivia - I don't know what to call her either, this is so confusing - looks distressed. Her cocky confidence is gone, and she seems breathless. "Uh, Mister Bishop, we're concerned for your safety." She hands me a paper with a drawing on it.

"What's this?" The drawing is of a machine - no, THE machine, the one I've been working on. But there's a person strapped into it. On the bottom of the page is the face of a man, a close up of the person in the machine. The man has fire shooting out of his eyes, and appears to be in agony. The man is me.

"This was given to me by an acquaintance of your father. An Observer."

That snaps me out of staring at the drawing. "An Observer?" I didn't know they had them over here. Or that they knew about them. Are they the same, or doubles themselves? My brain is starting to overload.

"He gave it to me, I think, to warn me about what would happen to you if you ever returned here." She's looking at me intently, and there's more behind her eyes now than before. A desperateness to her. It makes her look more like...

"What's going on?" Charlie looks confused. Apparently I'm not the only one. She's still talking, urgently, as if willing me to understand. The pieces slowly click together in my mind.

"He wants you to know that your friends are here and that they have come to keep you safe." My friends...

"Hey, Liv, what the hell are you talking about?" It was one question too many, and she grabs the almost-empty wine bottle and breaks it across his skull. He falls to the floor in a heap.

I raise my hands to defend myself - from what, I have no idea - as it slowly sinks in what must be happening. There's no reason for this Olivia to be bashing her partner over the head with a wine bottle. It can't be ... but it must be. There's no other explanation. And as she looks up at me with those expressive eyes - those dark, desperate, haunted eyes - there's no doubt in my mind. Somehow, she's followed me. She's come for me. She's here.

"Oh God..." She checks Charlie for a pulse. He's alive. She looks up at me again.

"Peter, it's me."

"Thanks, I think I just figured that out."

A thousand thoughts and emotions run through me. Joy and sorrow, resentment and relief, anger and longing, defiance and confusion. I play guarded until I can sort through them. This is one new development too many. I probably look like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi. Of ten semis.

To buy myself a minute to breath, to think, I take the drawing over to the schematic I have spread out on the desk. Compare the two. It's definitely the same machine. I feel anger swelling in me again, this time towards the father I thought hadn't betrayed me. I guess there's no universe where Walter is trustworthy.

"He lied to me. He told me I could heal the problems of this world. My father told me that all the problems out there started when Walter came over and stole me. And that, now that I was back, I was gonna be able to help to fix it. But his bringing me back was never about fixing this universe. It was about destroying yours."

I look back down at the drawing, a sense of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. Whatever this is, it can't be good. And I have no idea where to go from here.

I look back up at her. She's staring at nothing, looking pained. She meets my eyes.

"I'm sorry." She didn't just mean about the machine, about Walter. This apology was more personal.

I steal myself for the answer I don't really want to hear: "How long did you know?"

She looks away for a second, guiltily, but she looks back into my eyes to answer. "A few weeks."

I look away, fiddle with the papers on the desk, lean back away from her. Suddenly I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to hear why she didn't tell me. Didn't care enough to tell me. I don't want to hear the excuses and the I'm sorry's and the reminder that she cares more about the job than about me. Cares more about keeping me on as a babysitter than having me herself.

"Peter, I..."

I cut her off. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna let them do this." Obviously. Whatever this was, it was dangerous and terrifying and I wanted to be as far away from it as I could. Of course I did. I wanted to run. I wonder if there's an Iraq over here.

"I don't think that he can. I mean, not without you." I shake my head, still not looking at her. It's too painful to look at her. And I don't want to consider what she's implying - I can't go back. There was a reason I left, and those reasons haven't changed. They've just gotten more complicated.

She says my name, in that tone I can't resist. The tone that makes me want to pull her into my arms and make all the pain and despair disappear. My eyes meet hers automatically before I can stop them. There is pain, and despair, but there's something else I can't identify. Hope, maybe, but something else. Something more.

She gives a small shake of her head, as if saying something obvious. "You don't belong here."

"No, I don't belong here." That much is certain. There's no home for me here either. I am adrift, a child of two worlds with no claim to either. I let out a breath, force myself to look at her again. Say it to her face. Make her prove me wrong. Because I know she can't.

"But I don't belong there, either."

"Yes, you do." And she looks so certain, her eyes willing me to agree, that I have to look away again. I can't let her pull me in this time, get lost in a hope that has no basis in reality. Whatever she's about to say, it won't change anything.

But then she steps towards me, closing the gap between us, and I look up again involuntarily. Olivia is someone who demands personal space. Who will move away automatically if you close in too fast. Getting close to her was like pushing against two like poles of a magnet - the closer you came, the farther she went. She'd rarely allowed me within her bubble, and had never moved into me herself. But now she's looking up at me, and I am trying hard to maintain my composure.

I've seen Olivia Dunham at the end of her rope. Risking her life and sanity for her partner and lover. Then risking her life and sanity again and again for strangers. I've seen her angry, determined, afraid, unsure. I've seen parts of her that very few people even know exist. But I've never seen her like this.

"I have thought of a hundred reasons... why you should come back. To - to fight the shape-shifters, to take care of Walter, to - to save the world. But in the end..."

I know what she's going to say. In the end, none of that matters. None of that changes anything. She can't give me what I need, and neither can her world.

"You have to come back."

She gives me a heartbreaking, watery smile, her eyes pleading with me, piercing me, killing me.

"Because you belong with me."

I blink. This wasn't right. This wasn't happening. I was so sure. I don't know if my shock plays out on my face - I don't think I have the ability to portray any emotion at the moment. But I feel like I've just been hit over the head with a blunt object - disoriented and completely off-kilter. My world is tilting.

She pauses, stealing herself for something. I know what, but I can't let myself believe it until it happens. After a second's hesitation, she reaches for my neck, her other hand on my chest, and leans in to touch her lips to mine. The shock of it all causes me to not respond fully at first - after a short moment I feel her shift away as if already doubting her forwardness. I place my hand on the small of her back in encouragement, and pull her close. She responds with renewed confidence. I feel lightheaded, intoxicated. I bring my free hand to her face, needing to touch her, to feel that she's real. I feel wetness on her cheek, and pull back to look at her, concerned. But she smiles, touches my cheek softly, and I realize that what I'm seeing in her eyes is love. I pull her in again, hungrily. And she responds in kind.

With my fingers in her hair and her lips on mine, I know with complete certainty that this  _is_  where I belong. I'm going home.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on ff.net 3/11/11


End file.
